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Roy Kent was born to run. It’s what made him a brilliant fucking midfielder, and it’s what made him insanely fucking good at escaping his own feelings for most of his life.
Yet here he is, two seasons after his retirement, unable to escape the bad days: the ones where he wakes up weighed down by all of his regrets. It’s stupid. He’s told Dr. Fieldstone as much, which led to an hour-long lecture on self-love and the negative effects of self-deprecating language. Whatever.
The thing is, Roy’s not sure he ever would’ve felt ready to leave the pitch. All of his life has been dedicated to the sport, so much so that for many years, he found it to be the most defining factor of his entire identity. And even if Dr. Fieldstone has told him countless times that this is normal for retired athletes, that a lot of them are never able to fully let go of the part of their identity that is 'footballer', it doesn’t make it any easier for him to be 40 and having to reinvent himself from scratch. To be completely honest, it feels a lot like giving up before the whistle has been blown in a 1-nil match.
Roy wasn’t ready to no longer be a footballer, even if his body was. It’s probably why he found so much enjoyment in training Jamie. He could pretend that he was still the legendary Roy Kent that Jamie was so infatuated with - Roy wasn’t fucking daft: he recognized the way the lad’s eyes shone whenever Roy gave him a compliment. He saw the way Jamie would constantly sneak glances at him when he thought Roy didn’t notice. And after Amsterdam, he began seeing the smiles.
It always went the same way. Roy would drop himself onto the couch in his living room after their evening training, and Jamie would follow him there, looking newly energized from whatever meal Roy had cooked him. Half an hour into the movie - sometimes earlier - Jamie would lose interest in the screen and turn his head almost casually, gaze landing on Roy’s side profile instead.
The first time it happened, Roy had almost growled at him: he’d been insecure, fucking sue him, because Jamie Tartt looked like a Greek god with his summer tan and jutted facial features, and Roy was fucking terrified that he had something on his face and that Jamie would think he was disgusting. The only thing that had kept him from actually snapping at the younger lad was the slight uptilt of the other man’s lips.
It was subtle, all-natural looking like Jamie wasn’t even aware that he was smiling at all, but as soon as Roy had seen it, he was unable to ignore it. Still, he pretended not to notice, scared that if he looked back and caught Jamie staring, Jamie would never look at him like that again. And having Jamie look at him with such unfiltered, genuine adoration felt incredibly fucking good.
So yes, Roy Kent was born to run. But for some reason, Jamie Tartt had made him want to stop and stand still. Enjoy the fucking view and smell the flowers, or whatever Dr. Fieldstone called it.
Roy was still the same person, though, albeit happier than he ever remembered being before. He had his sister, he had Phoebe, and he had Jamie. But it was inevitable that one day, he would have to keep running. And that’s what made the days of missing football even worse.
Where was Roy Kent supposed to run when there was no crowd cheering for him, no blinding lights, no ball? Where was he supposed to run when there was no longer another team pursuing him? What the fuck is a midfielder worth if he no longer has a goal to protect, an attack to anticipate?
“Oi,” Jamie murmurs from where his lips are pressed against Roy’s shoulder, successfully pulling Roy out of his thoughts in favour of glancing down at his boyfriend who’s still half-asleep, his eyes shut and breath warm against Roy’s skin.
“Mhm?” Roy hums, tracing the lad’s spine with his fingers the way he knows Jamie loves. One day, Roy’s gonna draw a map of all the dips and curves of the man in his arms, make sure no little detail is forgotten: no mole, no freckle left behind. For now, though, he’s content enough to visualize said map in his head.
“You’re talking shit ‘bout my boyfriend again. Stop,” is what Jamie’s hoarse, sleep-worn voice eventually responds with. Roy can't help the indignant scoff that leaves him.
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“Heard it anyway, from all the way inside ya stupid head,” he insists, and then one of his eyes is squinting open to glare at Roy with about the same threat level as a puppy dog.
“Why are you allowed to talk shit about me?” Roy pinches the skin under Jamie’s ribs gently, making the younger man squawk all high-pitched and upset as he blinks his eyes fully open.
“‘Cause we both know I don’t mean it,” his arm moves from where it’d been slung around Roy’s hips to instead let him cup Roy’s face so gently that Roy feels the urge to break something. “You were breathing funny.”
“Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“Dunno, you were breathing all fast-like. Panicky,” Jamie’s looking at him fully now, giving Roy his undivided attention.
“Did I wake you?” Roy asks, unable to hide the guilt from his voice as he looks at the clock. 3:42. They have a game tomorrow, and if Jamie is tired when he wakes up it's gonna be Roy and his stupid anxiety-depression-idiot brain's fault. Yes, the self-deprecating language is still a work in fucking process.
“Nah,” Jamie huffs out. “Gotta take a piss, but it can wait. What’s on ya mind?”
“Nothing.”
“I know old people don’t sleep good, but you’re not that old yet,” Jamie counters, pushing himself up on his elbow to hover over Roy slightly. “‘s it about the match?”
Roy shakes his head, looking past Jamie’s shoulder to avoid eye contact. He doesn’t want Jamie to feel bad for him: doesn’t want him to think he’s a pathetic old man who can’t let go of the sport that ruined his knee.
“Alright, ‘s it about Phoebe?”
Another headshake.
“You’re really not gonna tell me?” Jamie pouts, knowing that Roy can do little to resist that plush bottom lip of his. “Even after you woke me up at 4 a.m. on the day of a match?”
Fuuuuuuck. “I miss football,” is what he manages to get out, much to Jamie’s confusion as he keeps stroking Roy’s face with the most delicate of touches. Roy learned a long time ago that Jamie's natural restlessness was best controlled when the lad was touching something - and that something quickly became Roy.
“But you’re head coach?”
“I miss playing football,” Roy dares to look at Jamie as he says it, watching when the realization lands on his boyfriend's face, quickly followed by a deep frown. “I miss being a footballer. I just… Don’t know who I am without it.”
Jamie pulls back on the mattress, leaning against the headboard behind them while Roy readies himself for the pity that he’s gonna receive when— Jamie laughs. Not just a small, concealed huff, either: no, he fully barks out a laugh, throwing his head back dramatically before dragging Roy up to sit next to him. (Roy has told him many times that he despises when Jamie uses his strength for evil - carrying him around - but it’s like Jamie can see right through the lie, like he knows that deep down it makes Roy feel protected.)
“Sorry, ‘m not laughing at you. Well, I am. But only because you’re being a fucking knob,” Jamie is still holding onto him, his fingers warm against Roy’s skin as Roy continues to scowl at him. “You’ve got to be fucking mad to think that people only think of you as a footballer. You’re Roy fucking Kent!”
“Keeley and Phoebe said the same thing.”
“What, and you think they’re wrong?” Jamie challenges with that smug look on his face that Roy used to think he despised. Turns out, he really likes that stupid fucking face. “Roy Kent is a bloody legend. But he’s also an older brother and an uncle. Real fucking cool one at that, I’ve heard. And he’s a head coach now, if you can believe it.”
Roy rolls his eyes at Jamie, but doesn’t interrupt him. For each insecurity Roy has ever had, Jamie has ten songs of praise for him.
“He loves cooking, could be a chef if he wanted to. He’s always reading a fucking book ‘cause he’s just that brilliant,” Jamie taps Roy’s chest softly. “He’s fit, and he’s mad funny, and he takes real good care of everyone he loves.”
“I should be over it,” Roy announces like it’s a well-known fact - like his feelings were always supposed to have an expiration date. “I’m sorry I woke you up with my bullshit.”
“Well, I’m not sorry I woke up,” Jamie presses a kiss to his temple, nudging at Roy’s face with his nose until Roy turns to face him fully. “It’s not bullshit, Roy. When I retire, I’ll probably never stop whining about it.”
“That’s different.”
Jamie levels him with an unimpressed gaze, indicating that Roy has just said something factually incorrect. It's the same look he gets when Roy purposefully gets a historical fact wrong just to set Jamie off on a tangent.
“You’re so daft, sometimes,” he says, leaning in to capture Roy’s bottom lip between his own. “It’s not different. ‘Sides, you’ve been a footballer since ya were a kid, babe. Give yourself more than two seasons to mourn the game ya dedicated your life to.”
Jamie's using his kisses to soften Roy’s heart enough to make him agree, and it’s embarrassing that it almost works: before Roy can let himself be distracted, though, his instincts lose out to his insecurities. With a hand on Jamie's chest, he pulls back slightly.
“You’ll get tired of hearing me complain.”
“Do you get tired of hearing me complain?”
“All the fucking time,” Roy scoffs, but they both know it’s a lie. He might not care deeply about a lot of what Jamie complains about - skincare brands changing their formulas, teammates wanting to play as Rosalina in Mario Kart when everyone knows she’s my main - but he enjoys listening to the stupid Mancunian lilt, and he finds it utterly endearing when Jamie loses himself in a topic.
“Think I’d listen to you read the dictionary if it was the only way of hearing your voice.” And isn’t that the dumbest, most romantic thing Jamie Tartt could possibly say right now? Roy doesn’t know why it warms him, but he can’t help dragging the lad into another kiss. This time, it’s Jamie pulling away prematurely. “I’m serious, babes. You’re not getting rid of me by complaining.”
“Fine, your loss. Now go piss,” Roy shoves himself out of Jamie’s arms, much to both of their dismay.
“Can we make out when I get back?” Jamie asks hopefully, and Roy lets the fondness spread through his chest.
“If you remember to wash your hands,” he confirms, pretending not to smile as Jamie leans down to place a sloppy kiss on his cheek before bouncing into the ensuite.
Roy might still feel lost sometimes, but for the first time in his life, he thinks he might be figuring it out. And if he has to keep himself from biting his boyfriend's head off when the prick calls it a midlife crisis, well, maybe it's all worth it in the end.